


and oh i knew it right from the start

by zenelly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack shakes his head, shakes the thought out. In any case, though, Bittle is fine, back with his new haircut that exposes the nape of his slim neck and a smile and pie for every occasion, which is coming in handy for the cooking class they share that Jack is admittedly sort of terrible at. Bittle doesn’t seem to notice Jack any more or any less this year, especially not with the three new frogs running around that Bittle’s been babysitting.</p><p>Not that Jack needs Bittle’s attention, Jack thinks as he rolls onto his back, trying to get comfortable and failing miserably. He doesn’t, clearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and oh i knew it right from the start

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh, this is actually the first thing I've written for a gift exchange! This was a lot of fun to write, and hopefully y'all like it. Thanks to Ngozi for creating this most wonderful webcomic!!

Jack stares at the wall.

As far as he can tell, nothing about the wall has changed over the last few hours that he’s been doing this, aside from maybe the quality and direction of light he can barely see by. His eyes are gritty and ill-focused in the night, the only source of illumination currently coming between the slats of the blinds, bands of orange light spilling in from the street. The Haus creaks around him, settling the way only the old, wooden building can. The windows are open, street noise and the distant burr of cars loud and present. If Jack listens hard enough, he can hear the breaths and shifts of his teammates, every move resounding through the house, and it’s so, so loud.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut (ignoring the raw dryness of them) and tries to block out the noise.

He needs to sleep.

He’s tired. They won their last game, and they have another one tomorrow, and he’s the Captain. He needs to sleep. He needs to make sure they’re all on task and playing well together. He can’t afford distractions, because his distractions always mean bad things for his team.

Jack shakes his head, trying to shut out the sudden swell of thoughts.

These bouts of sleeplessness don’t come often, but when they do, they’re awful.

Restless, Jack turns over to face the rest of the room. Maybe he could go downstairs. The TV is bound to have something about the World Wars on, and that’s at least enjoyable. But if he does go downstairs, he’s going to run into Shitty, and Jack doesn’t want to bother anyone else with his anxious insomnia. Jack sighs. His door is slightly open, just enough to catch the breeze coming through the window, and he knows that, past his line of sight, the closed door across the hall is there, and behind...

Jack's mouth ticks sideways in a frown that smoothes out a moment later, his mind caught on a new train of thought.

Bittle.

There’s a part of Jack that wasn’t honestly expecting Bittle back on the team this year, not with the concussion and Jack’s general attitude towards him, but he is there. Bright and bubbling as always. Jack’s ….

Glad, honestly, because it’s not Bittle’s fault that Jack needs the recognition and support of his father all the time, it’s not his fault at all that Jack’s sort of a terrible person who can’t let other people be good at something without getting jealous of it despite the fact that Bittle’s never been anything but kind.

It’s possible that Jack has spent a little too much time thinking about this.

But disregarding Jack’s own particular hangups, it is a goddamned shame that Bittle is back to being scared of checks after the time Jack spent teaching him otherwise, and the number of times he had assured Bittle that he had his back. And he let him down. Jack swallows the surge of guilt that brings.

It’s not about him.

It’s not his fault (except it is).

Jack shakes his head, shakes the thought out. In any case, though, Bittle is fine, back with his new haircut that exposes the nape of his slim neck and a smile and pie for every occasion, which is coming in handy for the cooking class they share that Jack is admittedly sort of terrible at. Bittle doesn’t seem to notice Jack any more or any less this year, especially not with the three new frogs running around that Bittle’s been babysitting.

Not that Jack needs Bittle’s attention, Jack thinks as he rolls onto his back, trying to get comfortable and failing miserably. He doesn’t, clearly. But Bittle is always the play that Jack can never quite anticipate. After all, Jack had been convinced that he and Bittle weren’t even going to get along as teammates, but now Jack is beginning to recognize the music Bittle plays all the time. Rhianna or something.

He’s sure Bittle’s made him watch the music videos, anyway.

The door creaks open, and Jack sighs to himself. Well, fuck, wasn't like he was getting any sleep anyway. Maybe if he kicks the shit out of the intruder, they'll go away. It's most likely Shitty, anyway, and Shitty always deserves the beatings Jack gives him. He’ll consider it payback for all of the times Shitty has forced him to socialize when he’d rather have been focusing on other things. Like hockey. There’s the tell-tale sound of the wooden floor groaning as someone pads into the room, and Jack tenses, readying himself to catch Shitty off-guard.

But when Jack looks over, there's no looming figure hovering over him. So it's not Shitty. Jack squints, wondering for a vague, sleep deprived moment if there wasn’t ever anything there at all. After all, he can’t see anyone right now. Maybe he was just hearing things. 

And that's when someone slides onto the bed.

Jack is up and swearing quietly in French before he recognizes the person who has decided to take up residence on his bed.

Speak of the devil.

Bittle.

“Bittle, what are you doing here?” Jack asks quietly. He hopes there isn’t anything wrong, that something hasn’t happened to Bittle, but Bittle doesn’t even respond to his query, just snuffles a little bit and burrows down into the pillow. Jack swallows. “Bittle?”

Still no answer. Jack shakes his head wonderingly. Alright, so Bittle, who apparently sleepwalks because he’s out like a light already, is currently face down in one of Jack’s pillows. Even in the dark, Jack can see goosebumps rising on his skin.

“Bittle,” Jack says, uncomfortable. “Bittle, come on, wake up.”

Nothing.

Jack keeps his hands to himself for a moment longer before he carefully reaches out and jostles Bittle’s shoulder. “Bittle, this isn’t your room. Get up and go back to your room before I throw you there.”

Bittle merely makes a quiet whining noise that absolutely does not make Jack’s stomach twist, and nuzzles further into his pillow. He’s pale and slight in the desaturated moonlight, and Jack doesn’t understand him at all. Bittle is small and inexplicably friendly and chipper, softly accented and always there when Jack looks. They work well on a line together. Jack knows he plays harder when Bittle’s on the ice, wanting to keep him where his agility and reflexes can keep him out of trouble while Jack fields the more physical plays.

“Bitty,” he says almost desperately, hoping for some reason that maybe the unfamiliar nickname coming from Jack of all people would be enough to jolt Bittle into awareness.

Jack is, of course, out of luck.

He sighs. It’s also not a good idea to wake sleepwalkers, if Jack remembers right, so he supposes it’s a good thing Bittle didn’t wake up. But he looks so cold. Jack flips the end of his blanket over Bittle, hopes that will be the end of it and he’ll be able to get back to his whole “not sleeping” routine.

The TV downstairs is looking more appealing.

Bittle rolls over. Jack thinks for a second that maybe he’s woken up and is ready to go, but instead Bittle scoots backwards towards Jack, pressing his back all against Jack’s front.

And oh.

Bittle is so warm. And so small. He fits neatly inside the curve of Jack’s body, head resting on Jack’s arm below his chin, knees over thighs, ass- no, no, Jack’s not thinking about that.

With a quiet sigh, Jack pushes himself back just a little bit so their skin isn’t touching anymore. He’ll let Bittle sleep here for now. It won’t be good if the both of them are off their game tomorrow from lack of sleep.

He means to get up.

He really does.

But Bittle, Bitty, is so small and such a dogged player, and has a curl of blond-pale hair wrapping over the curve of his ear, and the moonlight plays so delicately across his skin that Jack loses himself in quiet contemplation. The frantic motion of Jack’s mind is finally turned to something good.

But somehow, between one breath and the next, Bitty’s sleeping warmth doesn’t seem obtrusive anymore, and Jack relaxes into it, the inches of space separating them comfortable. He breathes in, out, easy, and closes his eyes. The house continues to settle, but Jack listens to Bitty’s deep, slightly whistling breaths. The noise doesn’t seem so bad that way.

His mind quiets, and when Jack squints open his eyes one last time to see the sweep of Bitty’s neck, he thinks, inanely, that this is what people write poetry about.

* * *

 

It’s a different noise that wakes him up.

"Dude, Jack, I know that it got cold last night, but Bitty can't be that good of a teddy bear."

"Lookit him, that's fucking sweet, eh?"

"Downright matrimonial."

Jack sighs and says, without opening his eyes, "Ransom, Holster, if you want to keep pretending all of the thumping I hear at night is just you two 'rearranging your furniture' again, that's fine. I mean, I could also keep bringing it up with Shitty, if you'd like. I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you two about heteronormativity and how it relates to sports teams. Again."

There's a long silence. Jack breathes in, breathes out. Something smells really amazing.

“Yeah, alright Jack, but you still need to see this. Do you even know what the two of you look like?”

Jack’s about to say that no, he doesn’t know what he looks like, all he knows is that he’s warm and that’s the important part, but he cracks open his eyes anyway and comes face to face with. Well. The back of Bitty’s head anyway, since Jack is essentially nose deep in Bitty’s blond hair.

(Has Bitty always smelled this good?)

"It's cute as hell, Jack."

He focuses up and up to the-

Phone.

Picture on the phone.

Picture of Jack and Bitty spooning together, looking relaxed and happy asleep with blankets tangled around them, and Jack tenses, feeling cramped and locked down from his teeth to his toes. Everything is tight and tinted with nervousness. “Rans, Holtz,” Jack grinds out, but before he can compete his threat, Bitty lets out a quiet groan and opens his eyes, lashes fluttering in a brush of movement against the sensitive skin of Jack’s inner arm.

Jack knows the exact moment that Bitty registers that he’s not in his own bed.

“Oh! Oh my, oh my goodness, oh just let me, oh dear sweet lord,” Bitty lets out in a long, breathless rush of words and flailing. His attempts to extricate himself from the blankets is only winding him in tighter, and he keeps batting off Jack’s help, and Bitty is babbling and Holster and Ransom are laughing, laughing. Which is when Shitty comes barging in, and it’s just all a lost cause at that point, so Jack just props himself up on his elbow and resigns himself to this.

Amid cries of “Jack and Bitty were spooning and I missed it?” and “Lardo’s never gonna believe this” and “the frogs are never gonna believe this,” Jack rolls his eyes and watches Bitty give up his struggle with the blankets, feet irreparably tangled in the sheets. Eventually, Ransom and Holster wander out, lured by Shitty and the promise of some sort of coffee. Shitty mouths something like "You owe me" (and Jack pretends that he can't see it because of Shitty's 'stashe) before ducking out of the doorway and the sound of their amusement fades with their footsteps down the stairs.

At his side, Bitty stops struggling.

Jack looks down at him.

Bitty covers his eyes, face completely flushed, and Jack’s mouth turns up in a smile. “Oh my god,” he groans. “Kill me now, just take me out back and put me out of my misery. This is the most embarrassin’ thing I’ve ever done. Including the time you yelled at me in the shower for singing Beyonce.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Jack says quietly, trying for comforting and most likely ending up somewhere closer to “brick wall.” “You could’ve walked to Shits’ room. Or been naked.”

Bitty groans again, wordless and mortified as he drags his hands through his hair, and Jack.

Well, Jack tries to hide his laughter.

Bitty doesn’t bother hiding his once it starts, bubbling out of him like water from a fountain, and the dawn is gold in his eyelashes, lighting his eyes to a brilliant amber. Jack breathes in and out and lets himself smile. 

* * *

(It becomes a recurring thing.

Not the sleepless nights, thankfully, but sometimes, Bitty will appear in the doorway at night and slide under the covers, just to sleep. They won’t talk about how Bitty was only sleepwalking the first time and only pretends after that. Jack will hold him a careful distance away while they fall asleep and they will wake up wrapped up against each other. Other times, Jack will fall asleep on the green couch watching the History Channel, and will wake up warm with Bitty pressed up against his side.

One morning, Jack will wake up with his mouth already against Bitty’s neck, and when he kisses the skin there, Bitty will roll over to look at him with wide eyes and a smile on his mouth and draw Jack closer and closer still.

But that morning is still far off, and for now, Jack merely looks and wants and doesn’t know how to say anything correctly past the block in his teeth. So instead, he nudges Bitty and asks for pancakes for breakfast and waits.)


End file.
